


Revved Revy

by Anonymous



Category: Black Lagoon (Anime & Manga)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 18:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30009342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Relationships: Balalaika/Rebecca "Revy" Lee
Kudos: 9
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	Revved Revy

There were three of ‘em. 

Three fuckin’ jackass bullies at school that tormented me as a runt. They tried to make me their little bitch. And they did try. But one day, they pushed me right off the cliff of sanity. 

I landed so far away from the ground that I tied one of the bastards ended up to the tetherball pole. 

The rope looped around his neck like a noose. His red nose had snot running down, a greenish clear as he kept crying out, his legs kicking. 

In response, I started to choke the motherfucker, witnessing a scarlet line slash across his neck. My hands felt the roughness of the rope, a burning sensation as he continued to struggle. 

So it wasn’t a surprise that it led to the principal expelling me. 

His name was Robert; he had black hair while the other two bullies, named Billy and Mike, had light brown. 

Out of the two brunettes, Billy wore a brown shirt and was taller, more relaxed as he put on a serious face with his hands shuffled in his jeans' pockets. 

He was pulling the tough guy act, huh? Lookin’ like Al Capone's little twin that hopped out of a clown car. I stifled my laugh at the joke, and of course, Billy frowned harder. 

Mike had ruffled hair that moved with the breeze; in his hand, the toy motorcycle that I had dug out of a nearby dumpster behind the apartment. 

Cuts and needle pricks still formed on my skin from how deep I searched for the damn thing. Eventually, I just dumped myself in there, using my hands as if they belonged to a rabid raccoon. 

Robert was the one with black curly hair. His belt struggled to keep his stomach from popping the button of his pants. He wore a cocky smirk on his face, his crooked teeth showing like that of a baboon with a red ass. 

Mike tossed the toy up in the air; his gaze followed it up and down. His head bobbed at the motion. And he kept doing it, over and over again. 

My hands were trembling, restraining from ripping out clumps of my hair out of my scalp. The line of my mouth shook, and I tried to say something but couldn't. 

All of them were bigger than me and grades above me. They outmatched me in every way. It was hopeless to fight back.

The entire event happened in slow motion. Mike turned his head and looked at me straight in the eye. There was an evil pit of snakes lost in the dirty brown, all hissing at me, daring for me to stand my ground.

I didn't stand my ground. I did nothing, even when my body screamed to move as I scanned my eyes over them, looking and searching for a weak point. 

Spider legs climbed up my spine as I stood straighter, puffing out my chest, trying to look heroic like the cops on tv. 

Fear overrode my body. I realized it too late when I sucked in a deep breath to relieve myself of the air I was holding in. 

Why are they doing this? Why are they trying to destroy the one thing I finally got to have for myself? 

So many questions entered my mind at the thought of people hurting me like this. Then I remembered, duh, of course, they would hurt me. My old man does it all the time. A depressing thought, yet it fits my world.

My head tilted back as I looked up at the cloudy sky. The soft wind flowed by, moving the strings of my hoodie so that they were flapping. It's always cloudy on Mott Street; no sun in sight to save me from my fate of being a lousy coward of a kid. 

Mike’s finger tapped on the toy as he brought his arm down. The next thing he did was throw it at a brick wall overflown with graffiti. I blankly stared at the sight of my favorite toy falling into pieces in front of me. 

I attempted to keep a stoic face. A tear escaped my left eye despite my best efforts, and leather gloves clenched, making a squeaky sound. 

So I decided to grow some balls and face them. It didn’t turn out well. What happened was me just getting the shit kicked out of me, whimpering and gasping broken sounds. 

It was like a fucked up cassette tape on a loop. It just wouldn’t end. In one moment, they held me to the wall and took turns hitting me in my stomach, seeing how much I could take before I collapsed. They shouted out numbers with each hit; my mind didn't even catch which number it was when I dropped. 

“Hey!” 

Footsteps darted away as all the boys ran. My father's slurred voice scared them off as he kicked a trashcan; his yelled word echoed in the alleyway. 

Huh, I guess he decided to be a white knight, or he just wants to beat me himself instead of having his job being taken away due to a couple of kids. My head hung low at the correct answer. 

Dogs started up like engines, barking with all their might as my dad took a couple of steps forward, almost tripping over his own feet. Spit landed out of his mouth, falling to the ground as he swung his beer bottle with him. It marked pieces of broken glass, smearing over and staining it. 

He stopped, watched the kids run around the corner then turned to me. Thundering footsteps steps chambered the inside of my head as he drew closer and closer.

Shuffling backward, I tried to get some distance between us. Shoulders touched a brick wall, through the material of a coat, I could count how many bricks I covered with my body. 

“You...” Another step. Clasped hands met each other as if he was in prayer; his sandpaper hands made a sound as they rubbed against each other. His tank top was skewed, one of the white straps laying against his hairy arm. 

“Little.” His shadow morphed into the shade as he crouched down. My nose scrunched at the smell of foul bourbon on his breath, even when I knew I smelled the same, possibly even worse with the addition of some Lucky's and gun smoke. I'm sure he got a good look at me as I sat there, our faces close enough that I could recognize my own eyes. 

“Whore.”  
\---  
“Revy!”

That’s the word that rang in my eardrums as a finger pulled back on a trigger. The image in my mind was fire, and I could see it behind my eyelids as I fell back. They remind me of stripes off of peppermint candy. 

Peppermint: the round white and red candy always had the danger of getting stuck in my throat. It’s so tiny and small, so innocent when my fingers wrap around its little shafted shell of a wrapper as it creates a crinkle sound. 

Despite that, it’s my favorite candy. As I pop it into my mouth, the mint cools and heats it as I let it rest on my tongue. Even if the droplets of blood ruined the taste, the candy would remain number one. 

I stared at the concrete above me. My entire body ached, and I was sure that any minute the blood running through my veins would turn ice cold. 

Not a bad thought. Without all the gunfire in my mind as a rhythmic tune, it was almost distressing to lay on stone-cold concrete and let your mind wind over the fact that you’re going to bleed to death.

The last thing I heard before I slipped into unconsciousness was a stretched-out scream, uttered out as a sharp curse, “Revy!”  
\---  
“Rebecca,” a voice called out. I opened my eyes and let my gaze rest on a familiar face: Auntie Liu. She waved her spoon and pointed it at me, “You still going to do that dumb job?” 

“Yeah,” I answered. Steam curled in the air like the scent of homemade beef noodle soup entered my nose. Bubbles popped as Auntie Liu shook her head at the answer and continued to stir. 

Her motions themselves were that of a clock hand, every movement you could see before it happened, and every twist or turn of the wooden spoon was exact and precise.

“You know I don’t like when you go out like this,” she said. Her body weighed down on herself as she turned the knob on the stove, the flame flickering and growing smaller and smaller until it ceased to exist. 

She set down her spoon and took a seat at the table. A squeak erupted from it as it tried not to be crushed by her weight. 

I waved my hand, “I know, I know.” My eyes strayed away from her as I continued. “But I need to keep doing my share; otherwise, Big Blue will do me in.” 

“I won’t let him.” Auntie Liu wagged her finger at me. Her shoulders rolled back so that they were held high, showing off how big she was. “He’ll have to go through me.”

Crinkling eyes and an upturn of lips were the only response to that declaration. I sighed and laid my head on the table. 

Big Blue is a force of a man himself. With my own eyes, I saw him throw a full-grown man into an ice chipper, and it splattered blood and bits and piece of the brain across a few feet at least. When the screaming stopped, the only thing left behind was the sloshy remains of wet moist organs and blood that slipped down the body and melted into the floor. 

Grimacing at the thought, I got up from the chair, ignoring the scraping sound created on the tiled floor, and stood up. Auntie Liu and I looked at each other; emotions clustered cluelessly in the kitchen in the way that we gave each other a look. 

A firm hug later and a pinch of an ear meant that I was allowed to go. I turned away, and with a half-wave of my hand, I was gone. 

New York, Chinatown is a place that is twisted and curved as cars drift on corners between the territories of two triads that go to war for dominance across the city, both in the depths of the underground and anywhere else. 

Right as the door shut to Auntie Liu’s restaurant, a kid stood like a standing brick in front of me. A very short brick that, from my experience, neared the height of a washing machine full of drug money. 

He gasped and stared up at the teen in front of him. “You’re Two Hands!” the kid cried out. Ah, yes, I forgot about that. Getting such an awesome name wasn't as great as I first thought. Most of the time, the other members used it mockingly due to my inexperience with dual-wielding, barely holding up kills with the rest who only had one gun in their hand.

Even meant as a praise/recognition, I couldn’t help that my lips twitched in the meantime that the child ogled me. “I’m Revy, not Two Hands,” I corrected. 

Tilting my head, I loomed over the small boy, a shadow cast over, and a swallow of a throat guaranteed that the message was clear. Crouching down to the boy’s level, I asked him a question, “What’s your name?”

“D-dishi.” He tilted his head down so he was looking at his own feet. Crookedly smiling, I dragged a bark of a laugh from the back of my throat and placed a hand on the scruff of a fragile neck. 

Imagination came in the form of a rat in a cat’s maws; how easy it is to shake around and listen to the crack of bone as the cat eats its prey whole. I wonder which fits me best. 

Dishi shivered from fear. His body was thin, tattered clothes too big on his frail form. His cheeks were half full as tears started to make their way into tear ducts. I spotted a number on him. 

I stood up with a sigh and quirked my lips, putting on a kind face for a punished young soul of humanity. “C’mon, we’re going to go get you some proper clothes.” Gesturing in the direction of the store, I started to walk. 

As expected, Dishi followed, yapping the whole way about clothes, shoes and how his friends were going to think he’s so rich and cool now. A hand stopped the boy from entering the store as I lead him to a nearby bench instead. 

Cars sped by as we sat, a silver moon hung above by a thin line of string, and I counted the stars in the sky. There was masochism in the knowledge that there were too many to count. 

“Dishi, tell me about the 14k.” Dishi sputtered, and without even looking, I knew he was trying to hide the bold numbered tattoo peaking under his dirty tank top. He probably hasn't even hit double digits, and already he’s betted on his life, and soon enough, his chips will fall short, and he’ll be left behind. 

I closed my eyes. Dishi is a child who has not conquered the fact that being afraid of death will grant you death. Breathing in and out, I turned my head and locked eyes with him. 

“Tell me, Dishi.” As I spoke the following sentence, there was more threat than comfort hidden in my words. “Death won’t bite you in the ass if you do.”

A cutthroat grin formed on my face, my voice a near quiet growl. “Though if you want to die that badly, it wouldn't be a problem for me to put a bullet in ya.” 

“They’re planning a meet at Thomas Paine park; that’s all I know.” Dishi’s words were rushed and numb as if it was his saving grace of ever meeting agel with burgundy hair. 

Dishi twiddled his thumbs as he swung his legs on the bench. “You’re part of the Tribals, right, Revy?”

I smiled in approval, “So you can say it.” Furrowing my brows, I shook my head and stood up. I dug money out of my pocket and gave it to Dishi. 

“Do something good with your life. Don’t waste it being a fool of a gangster.” 

I hunched over, staring at the ground, my eyes side glancing the boy. I watched him move his legs, following his body, taking my time to hear the tiny running footsteps that would lead into a mousetrap.  
\---  
There was a discovery very early on in my life that hardwood hurts your back if you lay on it for too long. Dragging my tongue over lips, iron greeted taste buds and I bet ya that if I looked down I could’ve seen the blood that had dribbled down. Going all the way from my chapped skin, over my hoodie. 

Felt like an average day for me. My eyes were blurry, crusted at the edges due to dried-up tears. It felt almost shameful even to attempt to lift my body. Blotchy spots colored my abdomen, and it matched the rest of me. 

At that point in my life, I didn't try anymore to understand it. So what? My dad is a drunk that beats me. Half of a million other kids are experiencing the same damn thing. So my situation doesn't make me unique, just more ordinary. 

“Becky!” 

My ears rang as the yell above me sounded into them. A foot nudged me around as if I were a dead dog, already decomposing with bits of rotten flesh attached to my body. 

I didn't respond, and I’m fucking damn sure that made him angrier. 

My dad’s hand clamped down on my neck as if I were some prize from a claw machine game. He lifted me to my feet, and my eyes widened in surprise. He’d never done this before. 

My feet dragged along the ground as he led me to the balcony. I could hear a thumping sound in my chest, my breath caught, stuck there with no way out. 

Spit foamed on the inside of my mouth as he tightened his grip on me further. Shivering from the cold, I choked out a single word. It didn't mean shit; it meant nothing at all. 

He put me over the railing, and snowflakes fell on my skin, marking me with their pure white color—the same color as cocaine. 

A chuckle escaped me; then I got punched in the gut. Over and over again, I'm sure my skin must’ve resembled a blackened color of wiry flesh that was close to being so bruised that it tore like cloth.

Whispered breaths left my mouth, silent and still. My body struggled to breathe; my lungs must’ve stopped working by the time stinging metal touched my waist. 

A body buckled, and black entered my vision after a long, painful squeeze. I fell. And for a moment, everything was okay; there was no pain or suffering, nothing to hurt me. 

The wind flew past me, a roaring sound that entered my ears. My hair whipped left and right, blinding my vision. Strands of burgundy were visible as it created a barbed wire fence over my eyes. 

Everything stopped. Pressure pounced on one ankle and then shifted to both as my dad lifted me. Looking at my surroundings upside down felt calming in a way; a small pit in my heart told me to make a struggle so I would fall.

There was another building across from me, and I saw the shocked gasp of a little girl. Blindly swinging my arm, I did an upside-down wave. Fear and concern were in that girl’s eyes. 

Strangeness pounded my tongue as I tried to mouth out look away. There was still a chance of a drunk man letting me go. 

Nevertheless, I got pulled up, and my dad looked at me. Now he seemed to be sober, his form straighter and less of a haze surrounding his body. His eyes were full of the same emotions the little girl had.

It was awkward. Neither of us said anything as we looked everywhere, not even letting our eyes land on the other person. There was that sense of having to acknowledge what happened and, at the same time, trying to avoid it entirely. 

“You're a stupid fuck, but I saved your ass.” He crossed his arms; chin stuck up. “So you owe me, got it?” 

Shaking his head, he muttered one last thing, “I swear it's like you're fuckin’ braindead.” My dad started to walk away, going to the bed; he sat down. What he said was so quiet, hushed in a whisper tone, yet I still heard it. 

“I should've just let go.” 

“Yeah, you should’ve.” 

That's one of the only truths I've ever said in my life; a fucked up pact of agreement between daughter and father.

He looked up at me in surprise. A storm clouded him, and he put his face in his hands. He grunted, and through his fingers, I could see that he narrowed his eyes. 

His foot moved to the right; a bottle fell over. Both of us glanced at it. My dad spent more time staring, his head going from me to the bottle. 

My body started to lean towards the kitchen as he picked it up. 

He did a come hither motion with his hand, his head nodding at me. “Becky, come here.” 

I knew I was officially fucked when I started to sprint. A roar of pure anger surged in my ears, and I could hear nails on wood from him scrambling to catch up to me, his movements most likely still sluggish from the liquor. 

A chair squeaked and fell over, then a heavy weight was on my back as he tackled me, twisting my hair and pulling. I screamed at the pain and was able to struggle free from his grip. Looking at the kitchen, I could see the chair and crooked table that had been hurt from his attempt to get me. 

He stood across the table. I went around the left side of it, my sneakers skidding. My arms kept moving; I could hear heavy, heaving breaths behind me. 

Everything blurred as I headed straight for the grey sky. And I jumped. I fucking jumped off the balcony. 

Even then, I was scared at the thought of there being nobody there to catch me. But gravity didn't give a fuck. I landed back on Earth, away from the puffy clouds above. 

A howling dog was nearby, and I quickly caught on that it was me making the estranged sound. Hours or minutes passed by, I couldn't determine which. Several bones were either broken dislocated from the socket. 

There was a young voice that got closer. Until I got dragged by the feet into the twisted shadows, my eyes spotted the girl that tried to help me. Somehow my finger managed to get to my lips in a shushing motion, telling her to be quiet. 

She was wearing a pretty dress with shoes to match. Her little hand reached out to me. Tears welled up in my eyes as I kept my finger to my lips. 

The last thing I remember was the shatter of glass against my forehead. 

\---  
“котенок.”

I hummed in reply to the word, snuggling more into the blankets as arms curled around my waist. It was warm, soft, and safe. I could've mistaken it for heaven if someone told me I finally reached the pearl gates that were stuffed away behind ivory clouds. 

Balaliaka pulled me closer, her body curving to fit us together like puzzle pieces. I could feel that her face was in the crook of my neck; her gentle breaths warmed me. 

“я тебя люблю.” 

The words were thin and creamy, her accent as strong as it could be while the sentence stretched out, finalized by lips that pressed against my neck. 

My hands gravitated toward hers, and I held onto them. Our fingers intertwined, and I smile grew on my face at the squeeze I received. 

Balaliaka turned me over, so I was on my back, and a whine escaped me. She hushed me, then let her fingers trace my jaw, her pink nails trailing over. Wearily, I opened my eyes to catch a glimpse of the blonde. 

Regal as ever, even near the land of sleep, Balalaika kept touching me. If she were blind, I would've thought that she’d been trying to imprint my face on her fingers, some type of old-time remembrance for an upcoming battle. 

Maybe it was true; technically, the Russian was in a war, even with it being one-sided. 

The corners of my lips went down. War, something Balalaika had gone through enough. And she ended up worse than when she entered. 

Is that what's going to happen here? Balaliaka getting the short end of the stick while she suffers the consequences of the world. 

“You'll come back to me, correct?” Balaliaka asked. Her hands roamed my body, making sure to touch every part of me.

I grinned. “Of course, why wouldn't I?” 

She did a half-shrug; her large hand cupped my cheek, the other my tattoed shoulder. “It wouldn't surprise me if that Jap of yours took you away for another hero’s journey.” 

Cringing at the word hero, I grabbed at broad shoulders. The tips of our noses touched in an Eskimo kiss. “As if,” I said. 

Time must've stopped when our lips met. My heart fluttered, trying to leave my body and fly away. Her lips were so soft and warm, every time we came back for air, I couldn't help but stare at her. Every breath I took smelled of Havana cigars and perfume that swirled and circled me as if the sun was chasing me into paradise.

Once we held ourselves back and gave our lungs a chance of survival, we admired each other. And admire we did as moans were called out on the room, bouncing off the walls. 

God, the way I sounded. Too high pitched and needy, eager for the following action that would succumb my body to the next immense pleasure. 

A weak moan exited my body. Too sensitive and tired for anything else to occur, I opted to rub my forehead against the top of a chest as Balalaika held me.


End file.
